Past, Present, Future
by SoujisBlackCat
Summary: Lithuania is walking through Moscow's crowded streets on his way to Russia's house. He's going to do something that will change his future, but along the way, all he can think of is the past.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Please note that this fic contains history as interpreted by me and Himaruya Hidekaz; if anything offends you, I'm sorry, and if anything is glaringly wrong, be it historical detail or typos, please tell me, as I'm happy to correct.

The last time Lithuania was here, it was a quiet city. The people stayed in their houses after dark, afraid of the night and the powers that be and the future that was just starting to slip away. The last time he was here, he walked confidently out of Russia's house and into the night, expecting to be followed, but sure that he could escape whatever was coming and be free, in his own land once more. He crossed a darkened street and, hearing no footsteps behind him, turned to see why Russia had ignored his departure, after fighting him for so long. He caught a glimpse of the man through the kitchen window, partially obscured by faded ivory drapes, slumped over the table with his head in his hands. Something pulled at him - sympathy, beckoning him back, compelling him to stay. But Lithuania would never give in to mere sympathy, not after suffering for years like he had. He steeled himself, turned, and ran.

Lithuania doesn't remember exactly how he got home that night. He only remembers waking up the next morning, a free nation for the first time in 50 years, feeling completely liberated though he knew that the road ahead would not be easy. But he remembers what happened before, everything he said and did that got him the worst beating of his life, and then so miraculously freed him.

He was afraid that coming back to those same streets would reawaken old memories. He was afraid that he wouldn't be able to stand it. But it turns out he didn't have to worry. Because these aren't the same streets.

Everywhere he looks, lights are blazing. A fantastic variety of people flood the sidewalk, from wild-haired punks with body piercings to slender, well-groomed socialites in clothes that probably cost more than most people's yearly salaries. Looking around at the streets (glowing multicolored from a million neon ads and club windows) Lithuania wonders: _is this really Moscow?_

But he immediately answers his own question. He is surer of it than he has ever been sure of anything in his life: this is that place, the place he decided to return to. It may have changed, but it is the same location, the same latitude and longitude on the spinning Earth. Russia's house is still there. And he might be crazy, but he can't go back now. He has given himself a mission. He hugs the bundle he's carrying tighter to his chest, breathing steam into the bitingly cold air. The cold – what Russia always hated most – at least that hasn't changed.

He pauses at a crosswalk – something he never had to do before, because almost no one was out this late at night. But now he has to wait for cars to pass. As he is about to step out, a motorcycle roars by – no, a whole gang of them, going 10, 20 miles above the speed limit, dodging around cars, unmuffled engines ripping the night in half. Lithuania takes a moment to recover from the shock, then steps out briskly into the street. He never thought he would see people like this loose on the streets of Moscow. If things were as they were before, these rebels would surely be in jail – or worse. Now they own the streets. Whether that's better or worse is not for him to say.

To avoid the unusual clamor and the blinding lights, Lithuania ducks onto a quieter street – not perfectly quiet, of course, but a bit darker and gentler than the one he was on before. He walks past one building that's refreshingly dark, with just a few lights on in the higher windows. Probably an office building, judging from the glass-doored lobby and plant-lined plaza outside. And just off that plaza, on a small rise overlooking the buzzing city below, there's a young couple kissing under the stars. What a beautiful place for a romantic outing, Lithuania thinks, averting his eyes so he won't be privy to their intimate moments. He doesn't want to think about love for himself anymore, content with the happiness of all the human couples in his land and others. Because no matter what, people always find a way to be happy together, even if their countries do not.

Lithuania had a few good experiences in his youth – messing around with Poland in the rye fields, for example – but now whenever he thinks of romance and the physical behaviors that go with it, he can only recall Russia's tongue forcing its way into his mouth, the overwhelming taste of vodka, hands urgently ripping off his clothes with no consideration for him, and his body's unwanted response to it, every time.

It wasn't always bad, of course. There were times when Russia was gentler, even what you would call affectionate, holding Lithuania softly, stroking his hair, tenderly kissing his cheeks and the back of his neck. But even then, Lithuania was always paralyzed with fear, because that was what was scary about Russia: you never knew when he would be cruel, when he would be kind. The first time Russia called Lithuania to his room (it feels like so long ago; it must have been around the turn of the 20th century) he didn't know what to expect: he'd seen Russia's cruelty before, been punished for disobeying, but he'd never imagined that he would be used this way, for no purpose but another man's sadistic pleasure. For a while, living as part of the Russian empire hadn't seemed so bad. After that first night, Lithuania wanted out.

Lithuania used to wonder why Russia was so cruel to his own people, to the empire under his protection. He wondered why – and how he could stop Russia from doing anything worse. He wanted to do something. But he never had the courage, at least after that day –

"_We don't want children . . . who can't play nice, do we?" Russia says, his face twisting in an expression Lithuania has never seen before. He lifts his gun and fires a shot._

_"Russia, what are you doing?! They're your people! Have you gone mad?"_

_Another shot, and screams echo off the walls of the palace as panic sets in among the crowd._

_"What they're saying isn't unreasonable! Shooting will only make it worse!" Lithuania rushes forward and takes hold of Russia's gun arm, pulling him back. Russia tries to shake him off, but he holds on tightly until the butt of Russia's rifle slams into his head, quickly ending his protests._

It didn't take long for him to figure out why. But as for what he could do, he waited a long time before he even began to see it. The pieces of the puzzle came one by one, over years and years of life owned by Russia, owned by the Soviets. He has put them together now – his mind is clear enough. Had he figured it out earlier, he would have changed what was then the future, now the present. Things would probably have come out better – but what's done is done, and Lithuania is focused on what he's going to do now.

Author's Notes: My images of Moscow at night were informed by the article "Moscow Never Sleeps" in the August 2008 issue of National Geographic. Yes, I'm that much of a nerd. The article has a pessimistic view of the city, but the photos of the bikers and bright lights and clubs inspired me, so I decided to include them in this story. I do have some other sources to back up its information about Moscow's nightlife, but that one started it all. That first flashback is, of course, related to the Hetalia strip about Bloody Sunday - 1905, when citizens bringing a petition to the Tsar were shot at by the guards at his Winter Palace. After this, many Russians lost faith in their leadership, and it was the start of the schisms that led to civil war and revolution. I won't go into more detail because I lazily assume that most of you have read the strip.

I have all of this story written out -- it just needs to be edited. So chapter updates should come quickly.


	2. Chapter 2

Russia was never perfectly normal for a nation, having been raised by constant war and conquest and being a huge country with vulnerable borders and many uncooperative groups within. But he changed for the worse at the death of his royal family. Lithuania remembers it well; that chaos allowed him to gain independence, short lived though it was, for the first time. Seeing the violence that resulted, he came to think that Russia was born the way he was -- an unpredictable killer -- and had been hiding his true nature all along. At that time, Lithuania wanted only to be far away from him. But later, thinking back, he realized that Russia wasn't like that before. He could call up images of summer days when the temperature was slightly higher than usual, of Russia playing chess with the Tsar, drinking tea with the Tsarina, and – these are the most vivid – running around in the garden with Anastasia, playing pretend. Russia had adored that girl, and doted on her like he was her father himself. Then, to have her shot, unexpectedly, by the new leaders who promised that theirs would be an age of equality – who wouldn't go crazy after that?

The new leaders gave Russia a different mentality. To calm him when he was upset, they told him about all the sacrifices that needed to be made, all the hardships that were absolutely necessary to create their perfect world. And he believed them. He was always a little too trusting. Lithuania is almost sorry he wasn't there then -- could he have made the bigger country see reason? But Russia was always so stubborn, and Lithuania would only have been hurt. He would have been, one way or the other.

_The screams, he can't stop hearing them. They constantly ring in his ears, making his head hurt so badly that he can't get up. He's ill, he's hurting, his people are dying. And he never even suspected that Germany would do this. He didn't think Germany was a bad person. A bit uptight, a bit contrary maybe, but not capable of this evil, this destruction. How could he? They were hard workers, friends and family, the people he killed. A strong minority, a whole community, now dead. Dead for no reason, having done nothing wrong. _

_Lithuania is fevered, delirious, and alone. Poland is also struggling, Poland hates him, can't help him now. There's no one by his side. He almost wants to end it all, and he could try -- he has the tools here, a single shot and he'd be free – but he knows he can't, because his people, his poor people . . . So he lets himself go to the nightmares. The horror._

_The door to his house slides open. It wasn't locked? Didn't he lock it, a day, a month, a year ago? But no, it opens, and a tall uniformed figure steps in, crosses the room to the couch where Lithuania lies, dragging heavy boots along the floor. The figure stops, bends over, and the rough edge of a scarf brushes Lithuania's bare shoulder. He shudders._

_"You don't look well, Lithuania. Why don't you come with me? I'm strong, you know. I can protect you."_

_Lithuania is breathless, his head is swimming, but he mumbles something – a word of affirmation? Apparently it is, judging from Russia's crooked smile at his response. He knows he will suffer under Russia, too, but anything to escape this living hell, anything to keep the rest of his people alive. It's a sacrifice that he_ _is willing to make._

Under that regime Lithuania sacrificed lives, buildings, territory, and most painfully, culture. Everyone did; they had to or they wouldn't stay alive. Lithuania listened to the others rant about how horribly their new government persecuted their races, ideals and religions, nodding and agreeing, but knowing inside that it could not be stopped. He couldn't resist Russia when the big country beat him for using a word in his language; he couldn't stop his people from giving up their culture when Russia's propaganda and scare tactics entered their minds. He couldn't even go to church anymore.

It wasn't like there were no churches – many had been destroyed, their priests killed or displaced, but some remained. Faith wasn't destroyed completely, but crushed, demoralized until it shriveled so much that no one had the strength to practice it anymore. Estonia and Latvia both quickly gave up worshipping. But through all those long cold years, Lithuania felt it beating in his heart, and knew his people felt it too. Because in times of hardship, the so-called opiate of the people becomes their life-giving nectar.

_Fire, leaping and licking at the edges of thousands of figures -- each one unique and perfect, placed to express an individual's wish, hope, or joy. The fire devours them all: each carved design, each bead and bauble, each tiny figure of the messiah, along with what they represent. Left behind is nothing but ashes and cold, hard ground, disheveled by bulldozers so there won't even be a place to put crosses anymore._

_Lithuania stares at the mess and the retreating trucks in the background. They are carting away the metal crosses – all that they couldn't destroy here – to be used for scrap. He raises his gaze to the sky, trying to ignore the throbbing pain of the destruction and the gnawing sadness and helplessness Russia's actions always makes him feel. His favorite hill is gone, obliterated as if it was never there at all. What hope is there that it might rise again?_

_He trudges home – not to his home, but to Russia's, the place he's been forced to live. He's coming back from his old place – not that it resembles itself anymore. His feet drag heavily on the sidewalk, and the suitcase that he's carrying feels like lead in his hand. He's never been so disheartened in all his life._

_Lithuania opens the back door to Russia's house with his own tarnished key. He hopes that Russia won't confront him when he gets inside, won't berate him (as he often does) for his sadness – sadness only at losing a part of himself – which Russia always takes to mean rebellion. He peeks through the open door, watches and listens, and thank God (even thinking that phrase feels dangerous now), finds no one there. If he sneaks in, maybe at least he'll have some time to rest before being punished in the morning._

_He tiptoes through hallways he knows well, taking the smaller ones he used to use as a servant, hoping to be as unobtrusive as possible. Perhaps, he thinks, if he were to go down one set of stairs into the basement, and up the other, he could continue to his room on the top floor without any chance of another noticing. He decides this is a good plan and proceeds down, because why would Russia – or anyone – be in the basement at this time of night?_

_He's never liked Russia's basement, for a great many reasons. First, the main hall is thin and tight and makes him claustrophobic. Second, it's dark. Russia has a few dim lights installed, but for the most part, it's utter blackness. And even with those lights on in the hallway, each open door is a lightless pit, a threatening maw opening to swallow Lithuania. He's only been in one or two of these basement rooms, but he has never had a pleasant experience in any of them. Especially the one around the corner – the room whose blindingly white walls are now splashed with blood from him and others. He hates that room, and fears it; and though he has assured himself that this is a sound plan, he suddenly imagines that Russia, anticipating his actions, is lying in wait for him just beyond that door, pipe in hand, ready to beat him mercilessly and prevent him from resting properly ever again._

_Lithuania isn't sure whether to act on this fear; it's quite plausible, but he's not sure he could escape by now anyway, so he keeps edging forward. The creeping terror inside him rips at his already fragile nerves. At one moment he wants to yell, "Russia, I'm here, just come out and get it over with already!" But he smothers this desire, convincing himself that there's no one with him . . . no one. . ._

_There's a slight scraping from behind a nearby doorway. Lithuania freezes._

_There is no one down here, he tells himself. It must be . . . a mouse. Anything, any explanation but another person . . . country . . . monster . . . Lithuania takes another step, on the verge of bolting, struggling to keep himself calm._

_"Is someone there?" It's Russia's voice. Lithuania jumps, slamming into the wall, and only half suppresses a shriek._

_"C-comrade Russia . . ." Using the word he's been trained to, he turns and looks into the darkened room, hoping to see if its occupant has a pipe. But it's far too dark to tell._

_"What are you doing here so late at night?" Russia asks, though Lithuania still can't see him in the darkness. It's an interrogative question, but Russia's voice is surprisingly soft._

_"I was looking for something . . . I'm sorry, but you startled me - !"_

_"Ah, it's alright. Both of us should be in bed now, anyway. Come, let's go up." Lithuania hears Russia shift, his coat brushing against something, then slow steps towards the door. As he gets closer to the light, his face comes into view, and he looks tired, head drooping and eyes rimmed with red. And when he steps out fully, Lithuania sees that he's holding something small and flat close to his chest._

_Lithuania watches him walk, hardly noticing as he turns and says, "Why don't you follow? You must be exhausted, after today . . ."_

_Lithuania's head jolts up. "I'm sorry," he says. Sorry is his default phrase these days. "I'm coming." He doesn't dare look Russia in the eye. Russia said they'd go upstairs, but what if instead he turns the corner and leads Lithuania to_ that_ room . . . _

_Lithuania takes a few quick, quiet steps, trying to unobtrusively catch up and judge Russia's mood. Russia's tired. He surely won't do anything like that . . . fear makes Lithuania timid, even as he comes up beside Russia, who's walking resolutely with that object, whatever it is, clasped in his arms. Craning his neck a little to catch a glimpse of it, Lithuania sees faded paint and still-bright gold leaf, all on a chipped board with corners blunted by time. The image is painted in a very old style, as he can see from a twisted hand and edge of a face that are visible in spite of Russia's attempts to cover them. Lithuania knows Russia can tell he's looking at it, and doesn't want that. He's seen enough to be able to guess what it is, but foolishly he can't help asking:_

"_Is that the Madonna?" In an instant he realizes that he may have crossed a line and winces in preparation for a blow._

_Instead of hitting or scolding him, Russia stops walking, uncovers the painting, and looks at it as if to determine what exactly it is. "Yes," he says, slowly and carefully. "This old thing – I found it while I was . . . organizing. Yes, that's it . . ." Lithuania watches while Russia focuses on the image. He can see now the full picture of Mary holding baby Jesus, who's reaching out as if to take the viewer's hand. The figures are disproportionate, their features slightly disheveled, like someone knocked the picture and caused them to sway. But each brushstroke looks confident, every line smooth. The artist wasn't paying attention to realism, but looking for guidance from above. And although Lithuania doesn't believe in such images, he respects the faith with which they were made. How many relics like this are still around in this era, he wonders?_

"_It was silly of me, keeping this, wasn't it, Lithuania?" Russia turns to him with an embarrassed laugh. "Now we've given up on such frivolous things . . ."_

_Russia lets Lithuania go ahead of him on the first flight of stairs, and stops at the bottom of the second._

"_I should go get rid of this, yes? As there's no need for it anymore . . . you go on ahead. I'll just go and throw it away . . ." Lithuania nods slightly. He's never heard Russia sound this unsure. He must still have a ghost of his old religion left in his heart, too. Lithuania would stay and sympathize, but he's happier to be away from Russia for a while. Just in case._

_He goes to sleep that night with a conviction to save his own monuments of faith. Whatever Russia destroys can be rebuilt, as his people understand. That's why, when he arrives in Siauliai a few weeks later, he's not surprised to see new crosses planted in the rumpled soil. He's brought one himself; it's not very big, but as elaborate as he could carve at night without Russia noticing. He puts it there for everyone; himself, his brothers, Poland and the others on the borders of this false union, the states to the East and south, and Russia. Even him. Especially him._

Author's notes: My idea of threading loads of historical drabbles (or in that last one's case, a whole short fic) together with some sort of overarching storyline is totally experimental, so if you're actually reading it, you're my hero. Sorry about the italics overload. Anyhoo, history!

The first flashback represents Lithuania's joining the USSR. He'd fought with Poland after WWI, and then WWII started and Germany invaded the both of them. The large Jewish population Lithuania had back then was almost eradicated, and other groups suffered as well. In the end there were some rigged elections and Lithuania ended up with communist leaders who quickly gave in to pressure to join the USSR. It was a choice on Liet's part: was it worse to be occupied by Soviets or Germans? There are ten million different Hetalia-style interpretations, but I went with the idea that he was horribly hurt and sided with Russia without really wanting to, because he thught he might have a better chance of protection.

The Hill of Crosses from the scond flashback is a pilgrimage site outside the town of Siauliai in Lithuania. I suggest looking up photos of it, because it's an absolutely gorgeous place. Pilgrims go to the site leave crosses, some big and some small, made (usually) of metal or wood. Some do it to mark an occasion, such as a death or birth, and others do it just to get luck or a blessing. The tradition started centuries ago, and now there are thousands and thousands of crosses – despite the hill's being razed by the Soviets multiple times. These attempts at destruction usually involved fire and bulldozers, and sometimes ickier tactics like flooding the area with sewage. But no matter what, Lithuanians kept coming back to put up their crosses, so the hill has become a symbol of Lithuanian nationalism as well as religion.

The picture that Russia found in his storage cleaning is an icon, an image of a holy figure made by a Russian Orthodox (or more generally, Eastern Orthodox) worshipper. These are hung in churches, monasteries, and homes of the faithful. Painting an icon is as much an act of faith as art, which is why some of them, especially old ones, are slightly . . . odd looking. The painters were praying while they worked and not necessarily making sure everything was anatomically correct. They're still beautiful, though. Catholics (like Lithuania) don't generally approve of icons because they consider them idol worship, but I'm sure Liet would respect anyone's religious traditions. That's just what he's like. :3

Religion never really died out during Soviet times, despite the party's best efforts. The Russian Orthodox churches were kept open with help from pushy old babushkas (Russians never disobey older ladies!), and many people protested through religion, or held on to it for reassurance when times got tough. (Calling religion "the opiate of the people" is a quote from Marx, by the way.)

I'm sorry my notes are so long. Also, I hope I didn't offend anyone on the subject of religion. I have no religious affiliation myself.


	3. Chapter 3

Lithuania comes down a hill, away from the quiet district, into a street full of high-end clubs and drinking joints. A beautiful woman -- blonde, sleek and unblemished, and probably almost six feet tall – slides past him, just close enough that he can smell her flowery perfume. Then she and her equally beautiful girlfriends slip into a dark building whose walls pound with the force of the music inside. _They must be models,_ Lithuania thinks, and then he wonders if everybody here is a model, because all the people walking by, male and female, look like they could be on the cover of a fashion magazine. This is the land of the rich, the gorgeous, and the successful. The cynic in Lithuania scoffs at this monument to consumer culture. But he ignores it and laughs to himself, because he, with his unkempt hair and old brown coat and bundle wrapped in tissue paper, is so out of place here.

At the door of another club, a square-faced, leather-clad bodyguard gives Lithuania a disdainful look as he passes. Lithuania smiles back at him, knowing he's unaware that he's looking down his nose at a whole country – unaware that such beings even exist in human form.

Lithuania goes on, amused by the silliness of the overdone clubs and extravagant theme restaurants, and smiling at the happiness of the exuberant young people, content with their place in the world, who fill the streets. All around him they're laughing and dancing and drinking and talking, all in couples or groups of friends. It's not as if no one is having a breakdown in the back of one of the clubs, as if these people have no worry or sorrow or pain. But they aren't living in fear, like they were during Soviet times. They are free. So are Lithuania's people, now. And their joy and freedom lift him up inside.

But when did he last see Russia himself looking so happy? When did Russia last laugh? He's heard Russia chuckle menacingly many times, often while being beaten. But a real laugh? That is a rare occurrence.

_The trail of smoke, leading up into the sky and beyond, has faded. But Russia and Lithuania still stand on the hilltop that was their vantage point. Russia is laughing._

_"Can you believe it, Lithuania? The first man in space, ever! And he's safe and in orbit and everything, everything worked perfectly!" He grabs Lithuania's shoulder, punctuating his words by shaking the other man back and forth, hard enough to give him whiplash. Then he spins away, still laughing, jumps in the air and goes skipping through the sparse grass._

_Lithuania rubs his sore neck, but he's laughing too, and not only because of the comical sight of Russia skipping. It's because of the childish, infectious joy emanating from him, the kind one feels standing at the front of an ocean liner and looking out at the vast sea. It's the wind in your hair and the sight of the whole world stretched out before you. The feeling that anything is possible. Sure, later Russia will talk about how this was all to show that capitalist pig America, and how the USSR has the upper hand now, but Lithuania knows this wasn't done only to win over another country. He knows that Russia just wanted to touch the stars._

Lithuania has always recognized that some things make Russia happy, truly happy, not in his usual sadistic way. And he actually likes Russia when he's happy – how he gets bright and exuberant and almost innocent. But back then, when Russia was in a good mood and just as Lithuania started to think that staying with him wasn't so bad, the happiness would disappear. And when it was gone, Lithuania was hopeless to bring it back.

_"He's doing wonderfully, don't you think?" Lithuania says optimistically, gesturing toward the gymnast who's flipping and swinging across the bars. "Even with all this stiff competition, I'm sure he'll . . ." He trails off, because he knows Russia's not interested. Russia is staring across the stadium blankly, the sour expression on his face not at all dispelled by Lithuania's chatter. Lithuania knows what he's thinking: stiff, perhaps, but not as stiff as it should be._

_Lithuania forces a smile onto his face again and says, "It doesn't matter that America isn't here! He's just being all thickheaded, he and the others who followed him. I mean, lots of people still came, and it's just supposed to be fun-"_

_"Shut up, Lithuania." Russia leans forward and looks at the ground._

_Lithuania watches him for a second. He doesn't move. His face stays downcast, no change in expression. Lithuania's hand moves, almost of its own accord, sliding up over the armrest of his seat, hovering at the edge of Russia's back – and then it pauses. He wants to say something, to do something to comfort the man, but he's afraid. Because if he makes a wrong move, Russia will be angry at him. And when Russia is angry, it means pain. He pulls his hand away and turns in his seat to look the opposite direction, just as the gymnast flies off the bars and lands evenly on two feet. A stunning finish._

Lithuania would like to think that Russia really deserved the treatment that the other nations gave him that year at the Olympics –from those who only sent a few athletes, those who didn't show their flags, and those who didn't come at all. Russia's attack on Afghanistan was unprovoked and unnecessary. But what caused it? The way they responded, the other nations seemed to think it was hatred and selfishness. But Lithuania knew that the real cause was fear. Fear for losing support, fear for his own dying empire – that was what made Russia attack Afghanistan.

It was also what made Russia cling to Lithuania at night, even after beating him senseless - with every blow ranting about something that had happened, calling America a bastard and saying at least Lithuania was here, to be with Russia forever, right? And of course, afraid for himself, Lithuania always said yes. Yes, forever. Of course, Russia sir. He was always so weak. He knew Russia was in pain. But if only he'd known that that the big country – so big, a feared world power, so much stronger than Lithuania – was as afraid as he was. If only he'd known that was why Russia always wrapped his arms uncomfortably tight around Lithuania every night, never letting him move until morning came; restricting him until his whole body was aching to move, to shift, to do something, unable to sleep but unable to get up, waiting for the first rays of dawn so he could find an excuse to get out. It's a horrible memory – even now, when Lithuania thinks about it, he shudders – though he knows that Russia just wanted someone to hold on to.

Fear was the reason the big nation was so competitive with America, too. He wanted to be the strongest so he wouldn't feel afraid. He viewed the other power, quite rightfully, as a threat. Lithuania was caught in the middle of their cold war – friends with America, a servant of Russia's, sympathizing with both, but only able to communicate with one. His experience with war and stormy relations over his long history of being a country was enough to tell him that neither side was right or wrong. He just desperately hoped that they would come to a solution that didn't involve bombs.

But bombs or no, he often took the brunt of Russia's anger. He was close to Russia, uncomfortably close, the closest of all the countries in the USSR. That was why every insult Russia directed at America, every ounce of frustration, bitterness, and downright rage, reached Lithuania's ears first and most violently. Russia took out his anger at his rival on Lithuania, beating him for the slightest offense and going on about that capitalist pig and his insolent bosses and his propaganda and his worthless luxuries and stupid challenges to the glorious USSR. For a while Lithuania tried to calm him down, but he soon realized that Russia's anger was an unstoppable force that could only rush out in a torrent. Not that he hadn't really known that before. He just hadn't felt it so strongly, firsthand.

Back then, Russia used "capitalist" like it was a dirty word, spitting it out with as much venom as he could muster. Which was a lot. It's funny, Lithuania thinks as he turns onto a small suburban road, how quickly Russia assimilated into the economic system he used to denounce so much. The change was confusing to some, but Lithuania understands it. Russia was never tied to one system in the first place. He's always been looking for a cure-all, something to take away all his people's woes. Then again, so are all countries. But Russia is different – he just doesn't understand that even a panacea doesn't work perfectly, immediately. And some things that sound good don't work at all in the end.

That was Communism. How wonderful it sounded to have a system that made everyone equal. The same pay, the same position, the same workload, none of that status differences that cause jealousy, hatred and suffering. Even Lithuania didn't think it was a bad idea at first. But it only took a few years to learn that divisions in society can never truly be taken away, that people are inherently lazy, that it takes too much violence and repression to make a society where everyone is the same. That is why Communism never works. Not that other systems don't have their problems.

Lithuania passes a small overpass, where dwindling city traffic rushes over a small street below. Up there are the privileged in their shiny cars and spotless suits, and down here – below the bridge – someone else is sleeping. Soviet times were painful, yes, but at least people were assured of their livelihood. If they didn't stick out, they were supported from cradle to grave. No wonder some in the lower class still longed for those times to return. Lithuania isn't carrying any Russian money; normally he would be, and normally he would leave some there for the person under the bridge. But there's nothing he can do, and he just walks by, knowing this will play on his conscience for weeks to come. He's always been too nice for his own good. It was half the reason he stayed with Russia, after all. The way he still treats Russia with wariness makes some think he left like a deer bolting from oncoming headlights. But it wasn't fleeing – rather, making a decision for his future and the futures of all the other countries, inside and outside the USSR.

_He lies in Russia's bed as he has so many nights before. He's aching from new wounds – whip marks – on his back, but he doesn't really feel them; he doesn't really feel anything. It's like his body has gone numb, already asleep, and his mind is the only thing that's awake, watching. It's peaceful, but it's a scary kind of peace that makes Lithuania think of death, imagining what it might feel like. He'd rather not wallow in that thought, so he looks out the window in front of him, trapped as usual by Russia's arms, barely aware of it._

_It's how he goes through life nowadays, gliding along half-dazed, performing all the perfunctory duties and motions without ever thinking about them. It's what everyone's doing: they're all sick, weak and exhausted, even Russia. Yes, even he was tired tonight. It gave Lithuania a bit of a reprieve, not that he really noticed. Life has become so bad that the pain of being whipped is trivial. Everyone's economy is crashing, the people are starving and poor, and that original dream – the one that Russia had built this whole empire on – is crumbling, breaking down. It was doomed from the start, of course, but no one had expected life to get this harsh. The new leader tried to fix things, but he only weakened the social structure further. _

_How to fix this? How to stop this madness? _

_Rain – when it started falling, he doesn't know – streams down the windowpane, leaving intertwining snail trails in its wake. Russia shifts in his sleep._

_How to fix it? Leave._

_Can he leave? Now that's a question. He's spent so long with Russia, he almost can't recall just what freedom feels like anymore. But at least he isn't alone. Just a few months ago, he joined hands with his Baltic brothers, in a middle of a chain of their people, all standing together, unified against the oppression. Poland, too, has been talking to him excitedly about rights and freedom and making plans on how to improve everyone's lives, one by one. Now that the people's rights have been returned, it's happening all over, protests and rebellions, some peaceful, some not so peaceful. Everyone is discontent. Everyone wants out of this. _

_Everyone except Russia._

_He's looking peaceful now – as always, when asleep, he gains a sort of innocence that better fits his childlike features than his usual threatening aura. But all his waking hours have been tortured ones, Lithuania knows it. He's in just as much trouble as they all are. And yet he tries to hold things together. Is he that masochistic, or just plain crazy? Does he like lying here, in a pool of blood, numbed by the deadly cold?_

_In this moment, Lithuania wants nothing more than to get away from him._

_I'll do it tomorrow morning, he thinks._

_*_

A/N: This is late, but . . . semester finals, that's my excuse. Anyway: those Moscow clubs in the first part of the chapter are pretty ridiculous, extremely selective. You can get thrown out for not being pretty enough, no joke. Or at least for not being prettily dressed enough. Of course, I've never been to Russia, so I've only read about it, but that's what I've read.

I took a creative license with the first man in space, because I don't know if anyone was watching it from a hilltop, but I have a preconceived notion that someone watches every spacecraft launch from a hilltop. Anyway, the person they were watching get launched was Yuri Gagarin, who made history for the human race in 1961. Actually, the launch site was in Kazakhstan, so probably Russia should have been watching it with him, but as I said, creative license. If I remember correctly, Gagarin's ship was launched, orbited the Earth a time or so, and came right down again. Still, what a monumental achievement! And we say the USA won the race.

The next flashback: the Olympics held in Moscow in 1980, when America and a large number of other countries boycotted it to protest the USSR's recent (1979) invasion of Afghanistan. The Olympic attendance, which had been rising steadily, suddenly fell to the lowest level since 1956. Needless to say, USSR (also East German) athletes pretty much swept. Apparently the gymnasts were especially successful. But it was surely still a disappointment for Russia. As for why the USSR invaded Afghanistan, the politics there had changed and were no longer in their favor. Guess Russia really hates it when people leave him.

The last flashback doesn't have too much specific history, but obviously it happens sometime around 1989 – with the Baltic way (the human chain between the capitals of the three Baltic States, a peaceful protest), a reference to Poland's workers' movement, Solidarity, et all. Of course in reality, (some) Russians also wanted out, but Russia as a character doesn't want his little satellites/servants running away, as we will see next time. References to the new leader trying to make things better are obviously talking about Gorbachev – he freed up the economy, political and social structures with perestroika and glasnost, but inadvertently unleashed a stream of criticism and rebellion that eventually led to the USSR's downfall.


	4. Chapter 4

Lithuania walks onto a smaller street, further out with houses that look smaller and plainer the farther he gets from the city center. Russia's house has been swallowed by the growing metropolis: at first it was an estate outside the city; then it was a large house on the edge of the city; now it's just another building, lost in endless seas of suburban real estate. Hardly notable anymore.

He remembers lying next to Russia in the top floor of that once-impressive mansion, silently making his plans for the next day's escape. He knows now that it was silly to think that he could just up and leave once he decided he wanted to. But if he hadn't tried, where would he be now? Dead, maybe; or more likely broken, terrified of society, more prone to shaking and tears than Latvia.

He didn't have to leave when he did. Someone would have, as what had formerly been a union – or an illusion of one, anyway – was already done for, about to shatter. But it helped him keep his sanity, and he's proud that he was the one who first endured those hardships to move into blissful peace, and started a trend through all the other then-Soviet-Socialist-Republics. It was that thought that sustained him through all that Russia did to stop him: _I am clearing a path, and for those who come after, it will be easier._

_The door behind Lithuania creaks open. He doesn't bother to move; shifting in spite of the bindings on his arms and legs would take too much effort. It doesn't matter anyway: he knows who it is, and eye contact will do nothing for his case at this point._

_"Lithuania?" Russia says his name in a syrup-sweet voice that makes him feel sick. Nevertheless, he pulls an answer out of his dry throat._

_"What now, Russia? I'm still not giving in, you know." His voice sounds awfully weak in his ears, but his mind feels oddly clear._

_"Oh dear, it sounds like you've still got your mind set on leaving me."_

_"Of course." It's all he can say for a moment, but he pushes himself to get out the rest. "I'm not one with you . . . I never will be . . . ever again." He closes his eyes and waits for a response, be it in words or blows._

_"Then you won't be getting dinner tonight, either. I'll see you tomorrow morning, Lithuania." The door closes, and Lithuania sighs with relief. So far, not so bad. Sure, it feels like he's been literally chewed in half by hunger, but at least he's not getting any more scars. _I could stand another week of this,_ he thinks, steeling himself. And for the rest of them, this will be easier._

_Had he been looking, he might have seen a coolness in Russia's eyes that showed more than just a tyrant's remorse at losing his empire. But he hadn't, and surely he wouldn't have believed it if he had._

***

_All those times he didn't said "no" to Russia, knowing it would only bring more pain. All the times he had just lain there, acted indifferent or even said the opposite: "Yes, I love you, I'm yours." He never said the words with any emotion; they were a carefully rehearsed script that he forced himself to say to avoid Russia's torture. But this – he can't stand for this. This time he will throw away the script, not just throw it away but burn it, he tells himself. _

_"RUSSIA!" Lithuania's anger infuses the air around him as he calls; all the past injustices he's suffered and the rage he's hidden, shown in the flush on his face and the raw force in his voice, flow out of him to assail his former captor. Yet somehow, Russia – standing behind a row of tanks putting their way into Lithuania's city – keeps his cool._

_"What's wrong, Lithuania? Didn't I tell you, a long time ago? We don't want children who can't play nice. It's just what I'm doing now, isn't it?"_

_"When you said that, your "children" weren't getting out of hand. And mine aren't now! And here you are, with tanks! Why the hell do you need tanks? Why can't_ you_ play nice once in a while? My people –" And he gestures toward the crowds in the distance, some holding hands, some singing, all standing firm in one united mass – "Are just saying that they won't get beaten down by you anymore, and so am I!"_

_Russia stands up and takes a few steps toward Lithuania, his Lavender eyes icy cold._

_"Lithuania." His voice is eerily calm. "What they are doing is trying to stop me from getting to something that's rightfully mine."_

_"It's not yours. It's never been. It's mi-"_

_"Shut up!" Russia grabs Lithuania's shirt collar and lifts him up so his feet are off the ground, so the fabric strains and he's choking. "You are mine. You are one with me! You have said you are mine! I tried to make you remember, I tried so many times, why do you not understand?!" he yells, then brings his voice down low, pressing his face close to Lithuania's. "You used to be so good to me, Lithuania. You were the most diligent servant. You never complained, never disobeyed, always took care of me, did whatever I asked. And now you try to leave me? You say what I've done is unfair? Only now? Are you possessed? Was this a plot all along? What are you trying to do, Lithuania?! You make me crazy!" With a final growl, Russia drops him, almost throws him, to the ground. He lands on his side, his head hitting last but still forcefully, and lies still for a second, coughing and panting, as pain courses up through his temples and down to his neck. But he's not conceding yet._

_Lithuania lifts his head from the concrete. Because he won't stop until he's free, that or dead. He's made up his mind about it now. "Things weren't so bad before. But they are now. And that's why . . . I'm telling you to get the hell out of my tower, my city, and my land! Right now!"_

_"Silly Lithuania . . . do you really think I'd do that so easily, just because you asked?" Russia turns toward the tower, smiling again, and, as if on cue, a gunshot rings out in the distance. And a scream._

_"What are you . . . just like before . . ." Russia did this once, to his own people. He caused himself pain doing what he thought was necessary, and Lithuania respected that. But now it's Lithuania whose people are hurting, and he can feel their pain like each one wounded was himself. But he's not going to let himself feel hopeless, like he used to every time Russia wouldn't listen to him. He's going to do something this time. He pushes himself up._

_"Hey, Russia –" he says it just loud enough to make the other man turn back and face him again. There's a sudden pause as Russia meets his eyes, waiting for him to say something else, and he realizes he doesn't know what he wants to do. No, he knows what he wants – he wants to hit Russia, to punch him in the face once and again, kick him and crack his bones and reduce him to a weeping mess on the concrete, then literally throw him out of the city. It's a fiendish desire brought on by the rage flowing through his veins, but it drains out of him as he looks into Russia's cold violet eyes. He can't do that. It's not his way. He can't sink to Russia's level. It would be a disservice to his people. They're threatened by tanks, but they're joining hands and singing. They aren't acting violently, so he mustn't either._

_Russia gives him the usual crooked smile. "What? You want to come back now, now that you've seen what I'd do to you? You really are such a good servant . . ."_

_Lithuania's patience snaps. He lashes out, grabs Russia's arm, and whips him around so they're face to face, inches apart. Punching him looks even more tempting now, but Lithuania reminds himself not to. Violence begets violence. Words, those are powerful._

_"When I told you I was yours – when I worked for you, when I was so good to you, it was only because I was afraid of you. I've hated you this whole time. You forced my hand in everything, and you don't have the right to anymore. So leave." Lithuania imbues every word he says with the cool sharpness of a knife, and Russia balks; they cut him just as much as was intended. Then Lithuania slides past the big nation and walks smoothly toward his tower, going to help the people who've been injured by the tanks. He doesn't look back, doesn't care about the look on Russia's face. He's prepared to do more to stop him, even hit him if absolutely necessary, but he has a feeling that he won't have to. _

-

A/N: This chapter was heavy on the flashbacks . . . but they're worth it, aren't they? You see, even though the right to secede was technically in the constitution of the USSR, it wasn't at all possible until glasnost opened the door to protest, and suddenly the SSRs were clamoring to leave. The first one to announce it officially, in 1990, was Lithuania! *throws confetti on him* But Russia didn't just let him go. In January of 1991, he invaded Vilnius (Lithuania's capital) with tanks to disperse nonviolent protestors, killed 14 people, and injured many more. Also, Russia stopped sending energy/supplies to the Baltic States (in my interpretation, he locked them in the basement with no food). But Russia wasn't successful in taking Lithuania over again, and in September recognized him as an independent state.

I wanted to have Lithuania actually hit Russia – who doesn't want to see him be assertive at last? But the Baltic revolutions are characterized by nonviolence, and surely Russia would just punch him back harder . . .

Only two more chapters to this rambling story. Thank you for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

Finally, the house Lithuania lived in for two hundred years comes into view in front of him. The house he cleaned and swept and organized, the house he worked in and suffered in, the house where he was nearly driven crazy by exhaustion, mistreatment, and hopelessness. The house at the center of all his memories. But he doesn't dislike it. It isn't evil in itself. And neither is Russia. Oh yes, he told Russia he hated him. Since then he's tried to make it true, immersed himself in just the painful memories, trying to view Russia's evil side only and remove any strands of lingering affection. But, although they're outnumbered by the cruel memories, there is no denying to pleasant ones. He remembers Russia describing his dreams of sunflowers, dreams he held onto even when times became harsh. He remembers noticing, as he listened, the warmth of Russia's shoulder, how comfortable it was to lean on him, and being pleasantly surprised by the fact that Russia didn't object to the invasion of personal space or the fact that Lithuania was, technically, sleeping on the job. Russia was kind then, and in fact, there were many days when he showed affection to Lithuania. As time wore on, those days came less and less often, but when he did see the sweet side of Russia, it gave him a glimpse into that country's heart, and birthed the first glimmerings of sympathy that led to this whole plan so many years later.

_By now he is used to being ordered around, beaten, whipped, used as a tool to fulfill Russia's twisted desires. He has gained a talent for resisting pain. Pain is easy to understand, and therefore easy to ignore. But this is completely new, and confusing. Russia's hands, though callused, are surprisingly gentle on his back, sweeping up and down and tracing the latticed patterns of scars that have been formed, lengthened, deepened, thickened over years of captivity. And Russia's lips are at his neck, at the edge of muscle where it connects to the shoulder, lingering there, nuzzling a little, then moving steadily upwards, kisses getting stronger all the way, sucking on Lithuania's skin, leaving tiny red marks._

_The scary thing is that Lithuania remembers kissing Poland exactly the same way, passion increasing as he went on, his partner's soft blonde hair tickling his cheek. He remembers that it felt romantic. But he's never known Russia to be romantic. Psychopathic would be a better word. And yet now, the way he's kissing and stroking Lithuania with uncharacteristic affection – is this really the same man? How can his personality be so split? That infamous question: is he good with a touch of cruelty, or cruel with a touch of good?_

_Lithuania's mind spins in circles. He can't answer that, especially with what's being done to him right now. He stays still; usually Russia won't go too far if he doesn't react. But he knows deep down that this time it's hopeless._

_"Lithuania, Toris, my beautiful Toris – " Russia is whispering his real name, his human name, the name no one but Poland – no one but Feliks – ever called him. The word alone makes Lithuania shudder, because it feels so intimate and he never wanted to be that close to Russia, not ever. But it appears he is now, or soon will be; he can see where this is going, and he hasn't the strength to resist. Every other time, he's tried to pull away. But this time, something is keeping him, and it isn't just Russia's grip._

_"Toris," Russia wraps his tongue around the word as if it is candy, some delectable sweet slowly melting in his mouth. "Here –" Lithuania's hands are grasped and guided up through the folds of Russia's open shirt to rest on his chest. The thought that Russia wants Lithuania to touch him as he is touching Lithuania is repulsive, but Lithuania fears punishment and can see that at this point, there's no turning back. He gingerly runs his hands up to Russia's shoulders, then opens his eyes (they're always closed when he's being kissed) when he feels strange roughness under his fingers._

_His breath catches slightly at what he sees. Russia's body is worse than his, covered up and down with hideous scars. There's the remnants of a gash across his abdomen, criss-crossed scratches on his chest, a round mark probably from a bullet on the side of his waist, old burns on his shoulders, and what looks like a knife mark dangerously close to his heart – _

_God, it would take days to tell the stories of all these scars._

_Suddenly Lithuania wants to touch them, one by one, he wants to kiss them all better, and suddenly he's doing to Russia what Russia does to him, and with the same passion, because he thinks someone as badly scarred as this needs some comfort -- something, someone, anything. He is almost ashamed of feeling sorry for himself, seeing Russia like this. Maybe if he makes Russia happy now, he won't end up the same way. So Lithuania holds him tighter._

Lithuania takes a step toward the door. It's surprisingly hard to make this last leg of the journey. While he was on his way, the destination didn't feel real, but here it is before him, not as imposing as it used to be, but imposing nonetheless. He clutches the bundle for reassurance; painful memories have made him apprehensive. He doesn't want to argue with Russia or be hurt by him again. But he remembers when he first started thinking of this plan – at a meeting during the Nineties, when Russia was still suffering from the union's breakdown – and draws on that to continue moving forward.

_Russia's boss has been making excuses for him all morning. "He's not feeling well, he's under the weather, you know how things are over here . . ." Still, as the story changes slightly for every new nation who asks, everyone is becoming curious. Finally he admits something. "He was in a car accident last night. But it's nothing serious, and he is not in much pain right now, so please don't bother him about it."_

_Most of the others are satisfied. All of them respect the boss's wishes and leave. Lithuania watches Russia from across the room, reading the dark look in his lavender eyes and the way he holds his head in his hands._

_"He's hung over," Lithuania remarks quietly to Latvia, who's sitting next to him at the table. "He must have been pretty drunk when he crashed his car." As Lithuania has seen a few times, the amount of alcohol needed to give Russia a hangover is staggering._

_Latvia looks carefully at Russia, then at Lithuania again. He can see what brought Lithuania to that conclusion, but not what made him bring it up, or why he keeps looking at Russia almost sympathetically. Feeling his younger brother's eyes on him, Lithuania tries to smother his feelings of pity and make his own face look cold. Russia drinks all the time, but Lithuania only saw him really drunk a few times before the Soviet Union broke down, and now he seems to get worse every day. Lithuania wants to do something to ease the pain that makes him hurt himself like this, but the only he knows he could is the way that causes great pain to himself. So he's never tried._

_Not that there aren't other ways. He just doesn't think they are . . . possible. He can't, he tells himself, not with a man who showed such cruelty to him in the past. (Cruelty, yes – born of fear and helplessness and touched by a hint of obsessive love.)_

_An idea begins to form in his mind, gaining substance as it spins like a young galaxy. It's not something he can do today, or tomorrow, but someday – someday – he'll execute this plan. He'll help Russia heal someday, when he has finished healing himself._

_Am I healed?_ He asks himself as he hesitantly steps up to the door and places his hand on the knocker. It's ornate brass, marking the house as being older than both the recent hip real estate and the cookie-cutter soviet era concrete buildings. It's been here as long as Lithuania can remember, since the first time he visited Russia's house. He lifts it gently and lets it fall with a sturdy thunk. _I must be healed, because I can't turn back now. _

*

A/N: This chapter had a million kinks to work out, and it's still lackluster but it does its job. Sorry it took so long to come out.

Russian history is extremely depressing. If you think Lithuania's scars are bad . . . Russia has just as many if not more. And of course, something ridiculous like half of the deaths of the not-too-old and not-too-young in Russia during the 90's were alcohol related, so I've always had head canon that he got plastered and crashed his car at least once during that time. Poor Russia, he has an awfully hard life . . .

Next time, the finale!


	6. Chapter 6

Lithuania stands nervously at the door, waiting for an answer. It's one of those moments that feel like days. He watches the door tensely, knowing that any moment it will swing open and Russia's face – a face that's sharp in his old memories but fuzzy in his recent recollections, as he hasn't been close to it for a long time – will appear.

Finally there's a click as the door unlocks (it's never seemed so loud) and the handle slides down (unbelievably slowly) and the door opens and there's Russia. It's an anticlimactic moment. Russia doesn't seem to tower over Lithuania like he used to; he doesn't look cruel or arrogant or the least bit dangerous. He just looks a bit weary, with his ash-blond bangs falling into his face and slight circles under his violet eyes, wearing that familiar scarf over a worn green sweater. Lithuania knows he's not as strong as he used to be, but here he looks almost weak. That's what Lithuania would prefer, of course, but something about it still makes him sad.

Russia looked almost hopeful when he opened the door, but his face falls as he realizes it's Lithuania. "Great. I promise myself I won't drink tonight, and now you're here."

Lithuania's a little irked at being greeted this way, but he remembers how late it is and bites back a scathing remark (Trying _not _to drink? How unlike you!) to respond politely, "I'm sorry to bother you at this time of night. But there's something I'd like to talk to you about." He looks up as imploringly as possible, and the white around violet gets a little wider.

"Is it that you want to come back, Lithuania?" Russia raises an eyebrow, trying to look like he's being sarcastic. But he can't hide the hope that flashes in his eyes.

"No, not that. But it's important. I really want to talk to you. I've come all this way –"

"Fine. Come in." Russia's already walking back down the main hallway of his house, expecting Lithuania to follow. Lithuania gratefully comes inside, noting that the temperature in and out of the house is basically the same. It seems Russia doesn't pay much for heating, despite hating the cold so much.

Russia leads him to a small room just off the kitchen. He used to have a multitude of dining rooms, and of them this was the smallest and most casual, used by servants or for lunch breaks when nothing formal was going on. But now Russia's house has shrunk, and it appears he is using it as a normal dining room. Or maybe just a place to drink, because when he opens the cabinet that sits across from the table, Lithuania sees rows and rows of vodka bottles and just a few shot glasses in the front. He remembers very few instances of Russia measuring shots; he more often saw him drinking straight out of the bottle. Maybe it's a sign that he's trying to control himself now.

Lithuania puts his package down surreptitiously by the table, glad that Russia's looking away. He wasn't sure whether it should come out first or later, but he's decided that he should wait. He can tell that Russia's not in a good mood at all. He usually greets people with his creepy affected smile, and never fails to ask Lithuania to become one with him – but now he's quiet and sullen and grim-faced. Something must be up tonight.

"Are you going to sit?" Russia asks roughly as he pulls a bottle out of the cabinet.

"If I may –" Lithuania catches himself a moment before saying "sir". He's been alone with Russia for all of three minutes and he's already reverted back into servant mode. Inwardly, he chides himself for it. He has to be strong.

"Go ahead." Russia says. By the time Lithuania has pulled out a chair -- as quietly as he can, like making noise would trigger a bomb – Russia has poured himself a shot. By the time Lithuania sits down at the round, dark wooden table, he's drunk it. And he has another in his hand when he sits down. He promptly drinks this one too, sets his shot glass down on the table, rests his chin in his hand, and gives a short sigh. His usual smile – so practiced and so false – appears after a second, as he looks at Lithuania, whom he appeared to have forgotten in the presence of vodka.

"You'll have to forgive me, Lithuania," he says, his voice painfully sweet, just like it always used to be. "Sometimes on nights like this, especially nights when I don't drink, I start to remember things . . . that aren't that pleasant. You understand, yes?"

Lithuania nods slightly. He's oddly pleased by the fact that Russia was reminiscing tonight, just like him. The difference, it seems, is that Lithuania got a bit stronger because of his memories, even the painful ones, while Russia only felt worse.

"Now, Lithuania –" Russia continues, "what did you want to talk to me about?"

Lithuania opens his mouth, and it stays that way for a moment, because he nearly forgets what to say. He quickly recalls how he worked it out, just a few days ago: _I hate Russia for the things that he's done, but not for who he is. So I must – _

"I want you to apologize."

Russia's expression sours and he sweeps the shot glass aside. He starts to lift the bottle instead, but Lithuania's hand darts across the table and catches it before it gets to his lips. Russia keeps pulling on it, shooting him a dark look.

"A drunken apology is worse than none at all," Lithuania says quietly. It's as if he still doesn't trust himself to speak up to Russia. He had such courage, almost twenty years ago, when he told Russia he hated him, said he had to leave. But this requires a different kind of courage, because what he's saying isn't necessary or even fair; it's what he _wants_, what he _thinks_ is best, and it will require unshakable self-confidence to get through.

When Lithuania doesn't let go, Russia slams the bottle onto the table, almost catching Lithuania's fingers underneath. "Apologize?" he snaps. "I've already apologized. To all of you. And I let you go, didn't I? What more do you want?"

"I want you to apologize to _me_." Lithuania feels awkward saying it, here alone with Russia, facing that icy gaze that seems to drill holes through his skull. But if he could get Russia to open up to him, then maybe –

"To you? Just you?" Russia laughs, a bit half-heartedly. "You're the one who should apologize. You left me. You hurt me, Lithuania. So many years of service, out like that!" He snaps his fingers. "And now you come back, after – how long has it been, twenty years? – to make a fool of me again!"

Lithuania doesn't understand. "I didn't say –"

"Are you going to act ignorant now?" Russia puts on a tone one might use to explain something to child. "Like you've forgotten all those years you spent pretending you cared? I don't know how you did it. I thought you were my friend." He puts a chilling emphasis on that word, _friend_. Lithuania can tell what he really means by it. "And then to go and tell me – don't deny it, you remember it as well as I – that it was just the opposite? Making me look weak, and stupid? _I _deserve the apology. Not you. So say it, or get out of my house. You shouldn't be here otherwise."

"I couldn't have been your _friend_." Lithuania tries to keep his voice calm. "Do you even remember . . . the things you did? The things you forced me to do? Did you see me before I left you? I was so ragged and worn and thin . . . but I guess the worst damage can't be seen. I'm still trying to heal, on the inside. And I thought if I . . . asked you . . ." He thinks again of how silly his request sounds. Russia is not the type to apologize. But he takes a breath and finishes the sentence: "I thought that if I asked you to apologize, it might . . . help smooth things out, just a little. But if you're just going to yell at me or God forbid, attack me again, I might as well leave."

"You think I'm going to attack you? Now why would I attack you? Do you think it was my . . . my goal to hurt you all along? Well you're crazy. You were _special_ to me, Lithuania." Russia grabs the shot glass again and looks down at it as he pours more vodka. Lithuania doesn't try to stop him this time.

"Special." Lithuania watches dispassionately as Russia downs the next shot, a little more slowly than he did the others. "You mean you liked the sound of my screams the best?"

"Have you been talking to America?" Russia says, scowling. "They say we aren't rivals anymore, and _I've _tried to forgive and forget, but him? He just goes along like he used to, insulting me behind his back, blaming me for every problem in the known world – everyone does it. They can't find a scapegoat, so they blame Russia! Russia, with his vodka and nukes and communism! I'm sick of it!" He slams his glass onto the table. Everything he's said is old news to Lithuania, not that Russia knows it. Lithuania has talked with America, and is well aware of both of their lingering bad feelings.

"You've fallen into their trap now, haven't you," Russia continues. "Or maybe you fell into it a long time ago. The point is that you betrayed me. Do you really think I _enjoyed_ what I did to you?! I only wanted you to be happy . . . wanted _everyone_ to be happy! And none of you never appreciated it."

"You might have gotten better results if you didn't beat us," Lithuania interjects.

Russia throws his hands up. "I tried not to!" he says, "At the start, I tried! And then nothing worked! I had to do something! How could you be happy if you don't fit in the way I wanted? Why didn't you understand? It was supposed to work, they told me it would work, and everyone would be the same and happy! I didn't want it to turn out the same way as the Tsars!" Russia leans on the table, incining his head so Lithuania can't see his face. "But in the end, it failed, like everything else. Nothing I try ever works. You see just how long this lasts, Lithuania! Another few years and it'll be revolution again! Hundreds of years and my people are still suffering, and it still hurts . . ." He sighs. "I always fail."

It's quiet. Lithuania can't see Russia's expression. He can't be crying -- Lithuania would be able to tell if he was -- but he seems close.

"You were always my favorite," Russia says, and his voice is thick enough to confirm Lithuania's suspicions. "I wanted to protect you most of all, and I tried, but in the end I did the opposite. I'm weak, that's the reason. You're strong. I'm bigger than you, but you've grown and rebuilt so much faster than me. Even if I did apologize, you'd never forgive me. You shouldn't. I don't deserve your forgiveness. You should just leave me, find someone worthy of . . ." His voice cracks and he drops his head onto the table. "Of that smile of yours, Lithuania," he finishes in a whisper.

"You like my smile?" Lithuania asks softly, feeling one creep to his face as his heart is lightened by those barely audible words.

"Your smile is beautiful . . . And your eyes, and your voice, and all the rest of you . . . You understood me, or I thought you did, and you didn't complain and you did your duties . . . no matter what happened, you were the only one who kept coming back, kept being kind to me . . . and you were so generous, you always made me feel . . . right, somehow. But I ruined you! You're hideously scarred because of me. You were pure, like an angel, and I felt dirty and I didn't want you to be better, so I . . . did what I did . . . flayed and cut and destroyed you! I still hate myself for it . . . and I hope that no one ever hurts you, ever again!" He sounds like a child, his voice full of tears. "And I _am_ sorry . . . for you and all the others. See, there's your apology! Now leave me in peace!"

Lithuania sighs, but it's not a depressed sigh or an exasperated sigh or a pitying sigh. It's sort of a release of tension, like his bonds have been loosened and he can finally breathe. He's got what he wanted: not just an apology, but a confession; a confirmation of the motivations he suspected, but wasn't quite sure of; and something unexpectedly sweet to go along with it all. And now he knows he can finally do what he's been waiting to do for so many years. He gets up as silently as possible, walks to Russia's chair and – remembering what he couldn't do at the Moscow Olympics thirty years ago – brings his hand up to rest on Russia's shoulder.

"I owe you a few apologies too," he says as Russia brings his head up slightly. "Like: I'm sorry for lying when I said I hated you. And I'm sorry I couldn't find it in me to do this earlier."

"What . . . ?" Russia's looking up at Lithuania now, eyes wide, slightly confused, but Lithuania just smiles and wraps his arms around Russia's shoulders. It's slightly awkward, because Russia's still seated and Lithuania has to bend over to hug him, but it's not bad. Lithuania pulls him a little closer. He's comfortable to hold, as he always has been; not slim like Poland or muscular like America, but substantial and slightly soft. Lithuania's only gotten a few opportunities to hug Russia in all his history; after all, Russia's intimidating nature doesn't really encourage hugs. But every time he has, Russia has felt good in his arms.

"I never hated you, Russia," Lithuania says. "I mean, I hated everything you did to me, and I still hate it, because I'm still hurting from it. Not just the physical pain, the scars – I have to turn away when Poland tries to hold me. So many things trigger unpleasant memories. But you, the person, I don't hate. I was angry at you when I said that, and . . . I just wanted you out, and knew saying it would affect you strongly . . . it was horrible of me. I'm sorry." He pauses. "But if I hadn't left you then, we wouldn't have been able to go on, would we."

"You were right to leave. I made life so unfair for you. You don't have to be kind to me, really. I don't –"

"_Deserve_ it? Do you really think you've done that badly? Russia, I was out on your streets tonight, and I saw lots of your people. And not a one of them looked unhappy." Lithuania thinks of the person under the bridge when he says this; it's sort of a lie, but even that person had a coat, and didn't look really miserable. So it's pretty much true. "And even though some bad things happened under the old system, they loved you then, too. They were proud of you. They knew you wanted them to prosper. Your people love you, Russia."

"That may be true . . . and I love them, and feel when they're happy, and I'm glad everyone's better than they were. But you . . . countries. You don't like me."

Lithuania takes a breath, pulls out of the embrace. He has to admit that Russia still isn't popular with many nations these days. But he knows no one hates Russia like they did in years past.

"We . . . it's not as if we don't respect you. You – you are rather intimidating, you know. But that doesn't mean we don't like you. We all honestly want to stay in your favor, because we know you're powerful, now that your economy's recovered and your people are sorting themselves out . . ." Lithuania realizes that babbling will get him nowhere, because though Russia might talk about the others, he means one nation, and one nation alone. "I already said, _I_ don't hate you."

Russia sits back, looking at the floorboards. "But you don't love me, either."

"I . . . " Lithuania can't respond to something so direct.

"I've been feeling better these days, but I miss you," Russia says, his voice soft and plaintive, like a child's. "I do."

Lithuania takes a deep breath, intent on finding _something _to say. "I'm sorry you're lonely. And I'm not just going to come running back to you, but I'd like to do something to help. That's why I'm here, and . . . and I brought something, actually . . . Please, take this." He picks up his bundle and holds it out carefully in Russia's direction.

Russia takes it carefully, and looks up at Lithuania for confirmation before he gently removes the rumpled tissue paper to reveal a bouquet of multicolored sunflowers (gold, red, purple) in a grey plastic vase, with petals slightly twisted and skewed from being wrapped and carried around.

"I'm sorry they're not perfect, and they're not very much, but I knew you liked them and I thought it'd make you happy if I brought some," Lithuania says hurriedly when Russia's face stays expressionless.

"You're blushing, Lithuania," Russia says, his face still unchanging. "Are you that embarrassed about your gift?"

"Well . . . I just hope you like it, that's all. I want you to be happy." Lithuania gives Russia a rather shy smile. Russia looks surprised just for a moment, but then he smiles too, really smiles, and it makes Lithuania's heart leap. _The flowers don't matter. It's when I smile at him, _he thinks.

"Thank you," Russia says, leaning a bit closer. He pauses. "You're… very kind. Even to people you don't like very much, aren't you."

"How many times do I have to tell you?" Lithuania says, exasperated. "I don't hate you, I don't even dislike you. I can't love you… not now, not after everything. But I have a lot of memories of you, good and bad, and those . . . because of them . . ." He pauses as Russia looks at him expectantly.

"I care about you," he finishes, cheeks flushing. "That's all." Looking at Russia's face, he can feel all those memories rise and blend and come together into one feeling that's not good or bad but poignant and strong, because for good or ill, this nation has shaped so much of his history. They'll always be bound together, if not by feelings, by sympathy and a shared past full of pain. And Russia is looking at Lithuania in the exact same way Lithuania is looking at him, eye contact locked but strangely distant. Both are remembering the many ways they've seen the other's face: laughing, crying, angry, scared, pained, covered with blood . . .

Suddenly, as the memories form their own entity, larger than life, Lithuania starts to imagine that it's 1990 again. It's as if this house he's standing in is still his home, as if Russia's whims still dominate his life and this is his first step toward freedom. It's like he's _that close _to Russia again and suddenly he's scared, kept from running only by a lingering vestige of sympathy.

Trying to find a way out of the situation, he says quickly, "I ought to go now. It's late, and I shouldn't keep you any longer." He turns, giving what he wants to be a parting smile over his shoulder.

"Don't leave so quickly," Russia calls. There's a little bit of pleading in his voice. "It would be nice if you'd stay."

Lithuania pauses, halfway out of the room. Staying _would_ be nice, he thinks. If he could talk to Russia more . . . be close to him . . . then maybe the pain would be replaced by something else, after all. So what's making him hesitate?

Russia, still holding the sunflowers, is getting up to follow him, and Lithuania sees that familiar, imploring loneliness in his eyes, silently begging Lithuania to stay if only to provide companionship. What is it that Lithuania is afraid of – that suddenly it'll be just like old times again, with him bloody and beaten and trapped in those crushing arms until daybreak? What is the chance of that, when Russia is so sad and quiet and lonely and Lithuania has become so strong? No matter what it feels like, it isn't 1990, or 1940, or 1795 – he is not so far below Russia now. Why be afraid, then? Both of them are on their way to overcoming their pasts. Maybe they'll do better together this time around.

He takes a deep breath and looks at Russia's eyes – the eyes of the Russia of the present and future, not the past. Because those eyes are the ones that are here right now, and much kinder.

". . . Alright," he says, finally. "I'll stay. Just for a little while. Maybe we can find a better vase for those flowers. One that matches your décor."

"Ah . . . thank you." Russia keeps looking at him almost longingly, surely still reminiscing, until Lithuania breaks the moment by coming to Russia's side and gently taking the vase out of his hands.

"I'm sure we can find something. Let's see if I still know my way around this old place." He goes in a direction he thinks will lead him to a closet that stores old dishes and ceramics, beckoning with his hand for Russia to follow. After a moment, he does.

-

A/N: I feel like that was OOC for some reason. Please tell me if it was . . .

But on another note: IT'S DONE!

No more flashbacks here, so no historical notes, really. The inspiration behind the whole thing – as well as that "Moscow at Night" article – was something I saw online about how Lithuanians (and I suppose the citizens of other former SSRs) wanted some sort of apology from the Russians for all the prejudice and atrocities they committed. I wanted to write a fic in which Russia apologized to Lithuania somehow. Well, this year was the 20th anniversary of Lithuania's independence (on March 11th) so (even though this is a bit late for that date) I suppose this is as fitting a time as ever!

Oh, and sunflowers really do naturally come in red and purple as well as yellow. I found this out last summer. Pretty cool, huh?

For everyone who favorited this, got a story alert, or gave a nice comment: you guys keep me going. Thank you so much for your support! :)


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